We Are Infinite
by TiTivillus
Summary: Dean had been down this road so many times, he could write a book about it: "The Complete Illustrated Guide to Nursing Your Little Brother Back to Health After He's Been Tortured." Season 12x02. Hurt!Sam. Caring/Protective!Dean.


**Title:** We Are Infinite

 **Summary:** Dean had been through this so many times, he could write a book about it: "The complete illustrated guide to nursing little brothers back to health after they've been tortured." Season 12x02. Hurt!Sam. Caring/Protective!Dean.

 **Warning:** Spoilers up to season 12. Mentions of torture, graphic descriptions of injuries and bad language.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the show or any of its characters.

 **~SPN~**

Dean had tried to prepare himself for the worst.

He really had.

From the second Cas had told them about the British Woman of Letters, to the moment Dean and Mary snuck into the warehouse from the back entrance, he had told himself that Sam was likely going to be in a bad shape, that they might have roughened him up, beaten him bloody… or worse.

It had been one of the main reasons why he hadn't wanted for Mary to come along.

Their mom might have been a kick-ass hunter, but she wasn't quite used to being back out in the field yet, and she most definitely wasn't prepared to see Sam in the state he was going to be in after whatever interrogation methods the Men of Letters had used on him.

Turns out, Dean was even less prepared for it than Mary.

He had barely entered the building when a blood-curdling scream suddenly echoed through the hallways, loud enough to wake the dead and vibrating through every single bone in Dean's body.

 _Sammy._

Dean's brain short-circuited at the sound of his little brother's pain and just like that their carefully crafted plan was forgotten, all caution was thrown to the wind as Dean's protective instincts took over.

Ignoring his mother's hissed protests, Dean barged forward, intending to kill every last damn one of the sons of bitches who were hurting his brother.

He didn't get very far before they jumped him, but he put up one hell of a fight, nonetheless.

When he came to again, his wrists were shackled to the ceiling of some windowless interrogation room and there- smack in the middle of the room and tied to a fucking metal chair- was Sam, looking at Dean as though he was staring at a ghost.

Which… considering their circumstances, was to be expected.

Sam looked at him blankly, confusion and shock written so plainly over his fever-flushed features.

"D-Dea?"

The raspy quality of Sam's voice, coupled with his inability to get Dean's name out right, punched all the air from Dean's lungs in one terrifying go.

An old, familiar fear that settled deep inside of Dean's guts- the same type of overwhelming worry he felt every time his little brother got himself into some sort of trouble.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean said emotionally. He leaned forward as far as the shackles allowed, trying to get a better look at the kid and assess the damage that had been done to him.

"Can't leave you alone for a day without you getting into trouble, huh?"

He tried for a smile, but it faltered the second Sam's eyes slipped closed again in what looked like a mixture of exhaustion and blood loss- if the amount of sticky crimson that covered Sam's tattered shirt and exposed chest, was anything to go by.

 _Crap._

"No, no, no, no, Sam! Look at me, damn it!"

Dean cursed and yanked fruitlessly at his restraints, causing the thick metal cuffs to cut into the skin on his wrists as he tried to move forward- to somehow get closer to his brother.

The kid was practically hanging in his restraints, now, head lolling sluggishly from side to side as a thin trickle of fresh blood trailed down his left temple and coated skin red.

"C'mon, dude. Open those shiny peepers for me," Dean was trying to keep calm, but Sam's alarming state of incoherency was putting his patience to test.

When Sam didn't show any response, Dean's voice turned harsh with desperation.

"Sam, open your eyes and look at me!"

Sam blinked and two slits of swirling hazel focused on him.

"That's it, kiddo. Just focus on the sound of my voice, alright?" Dean softened his voice again, not wanting to add to his brother's obvious confusion or startle him even further in the state he was currently in. "Hey, it's alright… Do you know where you are?"

Sam's bleary gaze widened a little even further, hazel orbs listing to the side as if he was unable to keep his vision focused on the same spot for too long.

Dean's fingers curled into fists, worry coiling in his stomach.

"Sam, do you remember what happened?"

"'mara… th' sun…" Sam murmured brokenly as tears welled in his eyes. "N-no ch'ck-fl'cks…"

"That's right, little brother, no chick-flick-moments," Dean reassured with a shaky little smile and if it hadn't been for these goddamn handcuffs, Dean would have threaded his fingers through Sam's unruly curls- would have cupped the back of his neck and pulled him in for a life-affirming hug right then and there, he was so relieved to get some sort of reaction- of coherence out of his battered little brother.

"D-dead," Sam choked out in a ragged voice. "Dean's... y-you're... _dead_."

Sam's eyebrows pulled up down into a frown and his mouth compressed into a tight, trembling line and before Dean could do or say anything to prevent it- Sam was crying, big, messy tears starting to roll down his face and painting clear tracks into his blood-crusted skin.

Dean was pretty sure that it was like 80%-due to the blood loss and concussion- that his little brother would have never reacted like this if he wasn't too weak and utterly worn-out to stop it- but that didn't make it any easier to watch.

His brother was emotionally peeled open- left utterly exposed and vulnerable from days of physical torture on top of what Sam had believed to be the final, ultimate, irreversible loss of his last remaining family member- the loss of his brother.

Dean didn't even want to imagine what it must have felt like for Sam, being the one left behind, thinking that he was all alone in the world, with nobody coming for him, while these fucking sons of bitches tortured him for information.

His brother had thought that Dean died and went to the Empty.

Never to return again- neither on earth nor in the afterlife.

And that right there, Dean suddenly realized, had done way more damage to Sam than any type of physical torture he suffered through.

"Hey, hey, hey, c'mon," Dean's voice was shaky as he tried to get his brother to listen. Sam was hurting and weak and probably thinking this was all just some kind of cruel fever-dream; that Dean was nothing but a figment of his illusion; just his imagination, playing a painful joke on him.

Whatever Sam thought- whatever unnecessary emotional torment the kid was putting himself through, Dean needed it to stop. "Sammy, don't do that. Just look at me, alright? I'm not a vision… and I'm not dead. Amara didn't kill me– she wanted to, but she changed her mind the last second. Look, it's a long story and I swear I'll explain everything as soon as we're getting out of here, but right now, I'm gonna need you to hold it together, kiddo. Just long enough for me to—"

"For you to what?" a female voice with a thick British accent caused Dean's head to snap up in surprise.

Miss Watts was wearing the same fucking outfit she wore the last time he'd seen her, black overall and leather boots; hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head and the expression on her face was ice cold and calculating.

"Go on," she urged, taking a step forward and Dean gritted his teeth at the way Sam flinched back from the harmless movement.

The tiny sound of fear that left his brother's throat spoke volumes about the bitch's involvement in the whole torturing process and Dean made a mental not to gut that evil skank first.

"Why don't you tell us exactly how you were planning to get yourself and your brother out of this seemingly impossible situation?"

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and Dean looked at her with so every bit of contempt he could muster. If looks could kill, she would have dropped dead right then and there.

"Make no mistake, sweetheart. I _am_ getting him outta here," he said. "And when I do, I'm going to make you regret the day you were stupid enough to come after my little brother."

Miss Watts looked utterly unaffected by Dean's threat.

"You know, your brother kept up a brave front this past couple of days," she said in a monotonous voice, circling the chair Sam was strapped down to like a goddamn vulture, stalking its prey.

She dug a fist into his soggy, brown strands and yanked his head up for Dean to get a good look at the deep cuts on Sam's skin and the scarlet flush of a fever that had tinged his tear-streaked cheeks. Sam let out a strangled moan at the rough treatment and Dean's breath came a little harder from the sight and sound of his brother's pain.

It took every ounce of self-control he possessed, to keep himself from ripping his own goddamn arm off and lunging at her when she leaned down, threateningly close to Sam's exposed throat. Her eyes were still trained on Dean when she spoke, but her posture gave her dark intentions away.

She must have known, that there was no faster way to bring Dean to heel than by going after his little brother.

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"He refused to tell us anything, even after we used the cattle prod on him, you know? Wouldn't cave, no matter how bloody it got."

 _Cattle prod._

Dean's vision turned red.

He actually felt like he was going to get sick for a second, the fury was hitting him so hard and unexpected, dragging him under like the tide of an ocean.

"Now I think we might have gone about this wrong the entire time…" she smiled, yanking a knife from the back of her pants and holding it up for Dean to catch the reflections of the blade's edge. "After all, what better way is there to torture someone than to go after what they love?"

Dean's eyes went near black with anger. She could see it in his tension-filled posture, in his unflinching stare and the tight line of his clenched jaw.

How serious Dean was… how fucking out-of-his-mind _**livid**_.

If there had ever been a single doubt about where Sam ranked in the list of Dean's priorities, it would have been gone in this very instant.

"You listen to me, you strung-up bitch," Dean forced out from behind clenched teeth. "I don't care who you are or what you're trying to achieve with all this, but consider this your first and only warning: you make a move on my brother- you touch a single hair on his body- and it will be the last goddamn thing you ever did."

Her eyes actually widened for a moment and Dean wasn't sure whether it was from the tone of his voice or the look in his eyes, both of which said pretty much the same thing ( _touch Sammy and die_ ).

But before she could make true on her earlier threat and harm Sammy any further, the metallic sound of a gun hammer getting cocked, had all three of them turn towards the doorway.

In through the doorway, with blood smeared across her chin and wild hair, came their mom, her aim unwavering as it was trained on the British woman's head.

"Get away from my boys," she said, deathly serious and Dean let out a string of curses under his breath.

Shit was about to hit the fan.

 **~SPN~**

"C'mon, kid," Dean whispered in a shaky voice when Sam's eyes barely flickered open in pained confusion before they closed again.

"Is he awake?" Mary asked tremulously, hovering a few steps behind her sons with her gun still trained at the two women of letters they'd knocked out not too long ago. They were still unconscious but Mary wasn't going to take any risks.

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, watching his little brother closely as he kept his palm on Sam's cheek.

Sam was only vaguely responsive, jerkily tilting his face into Dean's hand without full recognition.

"Yeah... he's just out of it," Dean said, looking directly into Sam's glazed-over eyes.

Sam seemed unable to grasp what was going on around him as he let out a soft sound of mindless confusion and flinched back from Dean's hands.

"Okay, Sam, it's okay," Dean promised quietly, busying himself with the cuffs that were wrapped around one of the metal chair's legs and trying to get them off of his brother's bleeding wrists.

Mary watched them from a safe distance, not even realizing she was holding her breath.

Her eyes were mostly focused on Sam's face- on the way his pupils rolled sluggishly from side to side under his heavy lids- lips pressed together into a tight line and brows knitted into a confused frown, as Dean worked him free from his restraints.

Dean kept up a steady stream of reassurances as he unlocked the cuffs around Sam's bruised wrists and dropped them to the ground with a metallic clatter.

Sam slumped like a puppet with its strings cut off, collapsing in on himself and somehow managing to look small and vulnerable, despite his large frame.

Violent shivers were wrecking his spine and his eyes were glassy and distant.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered, hands hovering over Sam like he wasn't sure where to touch him without hurting him in the process- or maybe, because he wasn't sure if the physical contact would be appreciated.

After a second or two, of self-restraint, Dean huffed out a soft breath- caught somewhere between relieved beyond human measure and near-hysteric- and placed a shaking hand on the side of Sam's face that wasn't covered in cuts and bruises. "Hey…You with me, little brother?"

Sam gulped and swallowed, leaning forward in his chair as if to try and hide from Dean's scrutiny, desperate to get his emotions in check. Fear and insecurity were written so plainly across his features, that it was hard to even look at him… hard to imagine what he looked like without all these welts and scars and bruises covering his face.

"Are we… am I—d-dead?"

Mary's heart clenched in her chest at the whispered words- so full of hurt and longing.

"No," Dean whispered, shaking his head in denial. "No, Sam. This is real, alright? We came to get you outta here… it's a… a long story."

Mary almost snorted at that.

 _'It's a long story'_ didn't even begin to cover it.

"I d-don't…" Sam lifted a shaking hand up to his waist- as if to try and touch Dean to try and convince himself that his brother was really here- alive and breathing and crouching down on the floor in front of him- but he had to let it fall again, unable to get the necessary strength up.

Sam's features crumbled and he bit down hard on his lips as if to cut off the sound of a sob, even when his body still jerked from it and the next second, Sam felt his brother's strong arms wrap around his shivering back as he was pulled into a tight hug.

"It's alright… you're alright. I'm here now, I'm gonna take care of you," Dean murmured softly, brushing Sam's sweat-soaked bangs from his face in a gesture that was so gentle- so affectionate- that it stole Mary's breath for a second.

It took a moment for Sam to get on with the program, but then his own bloodied arms came up to return the hug with every last bit of his remaining strength he still possessed.

Sam gasped and sucked in a soft breath, fresh tears dripping off his face. Dean softly tugged Sam forward against the nape of his neck and, while Sam kept his head ducked and hidden in the safety of his brother's embrace, Mary felt something break inside at the display of genuine affection her boys displayed.

"Breathe… just breathe, Sammy," Dean hummed softly, his words barely audible over the sounds of Sam's hitched breathing.

He was rubbing Sam's back in a comforting manner, while Sam's fingers clenched in Dean's jacket until his knuckles turned white from lack of blood supply.

Mary just watched them with tears in her eyes and said nothing, not wanting to break up the much-needed reunion between the two brothers.

"I-I thought…" Sam choked, trying to explain what he had been feeling, and then stopped again as another sob clawed its way from his throat.

"I know," Dean said in an apologetic tone and squeezed his brother even tighter. "I know, Sam. I'm sorry."

If anything, Sam managed to sag even further against his brother, shoulders quivering with a grief Mary didn't even know the origins from and Dean angled his own body around in sync with his younger brother's movements, holding him steady as he cried.

"C'mon, now. We're gonna get you out of here, okay?" Dean softly prompted.

Sam nodded and grasped at Dean's side with his hands, almost as if he was afraid that if he let go of his older brother, he'd vanish into thin air again and stay gone forever.

Their positioning looked awkward and uncomfortable, with Dean's body twisted and Sam's large form hunched forward, but somehow they still managed to fit perfectly against one another and Mary thought that there was an aura of 'wholeness' to them, that hadn't been there when it had been just Dean and her.

There was a brief pause in Dean's gentle stream of muttered reassurances and he fell silent as if to listen and gauge the kid's state the sounds he was making; from the way his sobs had slowly ebbed off into occasional sniffles, all the while continuing to rub the kid's back in comforting circles.

Sam slowly seemed to regain some of his coherence; his forceful swallows and measured breaths indicating that the worst of his breakdown had come to an end.

Dean seemed to notice it too because the next thing he did was slowly pull himself out of Sam's tight grasp and leaning back to get a better look at his brother's face.

He let out a slow breath himself and swiped a callous thumb over Sam's cheeks to wipe at the tears there. "Think you can stand?"

"I'm not sure."

"Let's find out."

Dean grasped Sam by the armpits, and with a heavy grunt, heaved his brother to his feet.

Sam's breathing turned heavy as he swayed dangerously back and forth and before Mary could properly think about it, she'd stepped out of the shadows and forward towards her boys, trying to help.

When Dean shot her a warning look over Sam's shoulder that said _'Not now'_ and _'I've got it'_ she backed off again, albeit reluctantly, heart aching at the way his youngest seemed to struggle with the simple task of standing upright.

He strained and flexed his muscles, long legs pushing against the floor, while his head was still pitched forward forehead tucked safely against the bend of Dean's neck.

It was then that Mary noticed how badly Sam was shivering- how hard his breaths were coming, hot and fast, against the side of Dean's neck, rattling his bloodied chest with pain and exhaustion.

"C'mon, lock your knees," Dean instructed patiently, _gently_ , feeling Sam's entire body tense against him as he tried to follow his big brother's instructions.

Sam's hold on Dean's jacket turned into a violent claw against fabric and soon he was grunting with frustration when his knees still threatened to buckle and his feet didn't shuffle an inch from where he was standing.

"I… Dean, I can't—" Sam finally gasped, voice trembling.

"Alright, it's alright, Sam…" Dean gave up and let his brother's body slump back down into the chair- red-faced from exertion and breathing heavily- his hope and self-confidence having drained out of him along with whatever little energy he had left.

"Just let me—" Mary stepped forward but Dean held up a hand to stop her, shooting a look in her direction.

 _Not now._

 _This is hard enough for him as it is._

 _He won't be able to handle the extra stress of finding out his long-lost mother had come back from the dead._

Mary knew their situation sucked and she could have come up with at least ten different ways on how she'd have rather planned out the emotional reunion with her youngest son, but Sam couldn't even _stand_ right now and there was no way Dean could carry his six-foot-four frame all by himself.

"'m sorry," Sam said in a small, broken tone and Mary's heart broke even further.

He ducked his head against Dean's neck, feeling Dean's hand cup the back of his head in reassurance.

"Don't be, it's alright," Dean's voice had a quality to it that Mary had never heard before- one that she couldn't possibly know because Dean had last used it when Sam had been five years old.

"Shit," he cursed low under his breath, washing a hand over his worried features.

He drove his fingers through his spiky hair, pupils flying around as he tried to come up with a new plan.

"Let's go with option two," Dean eventually decided.

He leaned down and with a rallying breath, he slung an arm around Sam's knees and lifted Sam's bloody body up into a full bridal carry. Letting out a pained grunt as his back muscle spasmed painfully under the weight of his brother's body, Mary could only watch in tremulous worry as Dean took a first staggering step towards the exit.

"Do you want me to—"

"No, I got it. Just get the door, alright?"

"D'n, _s-stop_ , I can—" Sam weakly protested, even as he wound his arms around Dean's neck and nuzzled tiredly into the warm spot right behind Dean's ear.

If Sam hadn't been tortured for days, electrocuted and shot and left for fucking dead, thinking Dean was lost to him forever, Dean would have never let him live this down.

But as it was, with Sam coughing up blood-flecked spittle against Dean's jacket and his breath hitching when the wound on his leg got jostled, Dean only tightened his hold on Sam and pushed forward, ignoring the weakened protests and light swats to his chest coming from his stubborn kid brother.

Mary followed Dean out to the Impala, letting out a soft sigh when a spray of cold rainwater hit her face because _of fucking course_ it would start raining the second they stepped outside.

Heavy rain bounced off the Impala's black hood like it was trying to wash the paintwork off and Dean rounded the car to settle Sam in the backseat of the car, more water pummeling down on his back as he took his jacket off and bunched it up into a makeshift pillow for Sam's head.

"Okay?" he asked softly, wiping droplets off his face and Mary couldn't be sure whether Sam answered him or not, from where she was standing, safely out of earshot.

By the time Dean had settled behind the steering wheel and Mary had gotten in on the passenger side, Sam's eyes had closed and his breaths had evened.

"This is gonna get worse, isn't it?" Mary asked, sensing that getting Sam out of there had only been the first step in what was likely to become a slow healing process.

Dean sighed, letting his assertive gaze flicker back over his shoulder towards his sleeping, battered looking brother.

"We got him back," he said softly and with so much relief in his voice that Mary felt her throat close up from the sound of it.

"Whatever's next," he looked back over at Mary. "We'll get him through it."

Mary nodded.

"Okay," she sighed and resettled her gaze on the windshield. "Okay..."

Yeah, she could deal with that.

Dean seemed like he knew exactly how to take care of a sick or hurting little brother.

She would just have to follow her eldest's lead on this.

As soon as they arrived at the bunker, Dean had gathered Sam back up into his arms and lead the way to the front door.

"Where do you wanna put him?" Mary asked softly as they made their way through the mapping room of the bunker. "Your bed and mine are the only ones that are made."

"Mine," Dean said decisively. "I need to redress his wounds and clean him up before we get him settled."

"Do you think he might have an—"

"Infection?" Dean grunted out, voice strained from the weight in his arms.

Sam had been asleep when Dean had carefully picked him up again and he hadn't woken once since they'd set foot in the bunker.

"Yeah, I think so. Gonna have to check our supplies for antibiotics."

They usually kept a stock of prescription-based medication at hand in case of emergencies, for when they were dealing with nasty stab wounds or infections.

Sam had managed to expand their colorful collection of happy pills quite impressively once he'd managed to hack himself into the nearby pharmacy's computer. Ever since that, they could print out their own prescriptions and needless to say, it saved them a lot of fucking trouble in their line of work.

At the moment, with Sam's whole body covered in fresh wounds and with an unreported shot wound thrown into the mix for extra spice, Dean was certainly grateful for the fact that he didn't have to answer any obnoxious questions from hospital staff or pharmacists.

When Dean settled Sam's unresponsive body down on his beloved memory foam mattress, Sam curled up into a ball, knees subconsciously moving up in an effort to guard his bruised ribs and aching midriff. He coughed, chest rattling with mucus and what sounded like the beginnings of a nasty cold ( _please, don't let it be pneumonia_ ) and Dean felt a renewed surge of fury when he looked at the tattered remnants of Sam's sweat- and rain-soaked shirt.

The kid was shivering, lips turned a light shade of blue from blood loss and shock and pure cold.

These bastards had left him down in that cold, moldy basement for days... without letting him sleep, or giving him food, or offering him a goddamn blanket, for Christ's sake.

Though the buzzing of lingering nerves and the overwhelmingly strong desire to _protect_ , Dean turned towards his closet and grabbed an old hoodie (he'd had that ugly thing from back when he was still hunting with their dad) from the bottom of his clean laundry pile.

"Help me get him up?" Dean asked softly and cast a questioning look towards his mom.

Mary was startled into action, thankful to have something to do and hovered close when Dean gently lifted Sam up and into his arms, letting the kid's forehead come to rest against his collar bone.

" _Dean_ ," Sam slurred out his name, weak and exhausted and so full of sadness that Dean had no doubt what he was dreaming about.

"It's okay. I'm right here, bud—" Dean's comforting voice was cut off by yet another nasty coughing fit, Sam's entire body convulsing as the deep rattling noise makes a reappearance. He was too out of it to cover his mouth and when a little bit of spittle and blood came up along with Sam's barking coughs, Dean wiped it off of Sam's mouth.

He'd wiped the kid's butt when they were younger- had cleaned up after he'd gotten sick on the road and blew chunks all over baby's leather interior… there really wasn't much that could gross Dean out when it came to his brother.

The sound and intensity of Sam's coughing fits were a reason to worry, though, and Dean was starting to freak out a little at the thought that they might have to deal with a lung infection or a nasty cold on top of all the other injuries Sam had sustained. A typical case of the infamous Winchester luck.

"That doesn't sound good," Mary commented dryly, leaning over Sam's form to brush his sweaty bangs from his face and place her own palm against his clammy forehead.

She grimaced when she felt the heat radiating from his skin. "His fever is about to spike."

Dean nodded, already having expected as much, and resettled his careful hold on Sam's body until he was bracing him carefully. one hand around his waist, the other splayed protectively across his chest.

"D'n?" Sam came awake with a weak flutter of lashed. "'s goin' on?"

"You're shivering pretty badly, kiddo. We're gonna get you into some warm clothes, alright?"

Sam grimaced and Dean was quick to move his soaked strands from his forehead in a comforting gesture. "Nothing we haven't done before..."

Dean idly wondered if Sam had taken noticed of the way Dean kept referring to himself as 'we' or whether his little brother had recognized Mary when she had barged in to save their asses earlier that night.

In the state his brother was in, it was questionable whether Sam could tell his fever dreams apart from actual reality, but maybe it was better that way, for now. Dean really wasn't sure how he was going to explain their mother's miraculous return to his half-out-of-his mind with pain, feverish little brother.

Dean sighed and started with the innocuous task of removing his little brother's soggy jeans, knowing how uncomfortable the rain-soaked and blood-crusted fabric must feel against his brother's skin.

He could feel a blush rising up to the tips of his ears as he fumbled with Sam's fly.

It wasn't so much the task of removing Sam's clothes that made him uncomfortable (after all, he'd done it numerous times before, after a job gone wrong or when it Sam was somehow incapable of doing it himself) but somehow, undressing his brother in front of their long-lost mother was a totally different ballgame.

"Could you- uh…" he cleared his throat. "Can you get his shirt while I…?"

This really shouldn't feel as awkward as it did, after all, Mary was their mother, she had carried them in her womb, for god's sake.

But Sam would be _mortified_ if he was aware enough to realize what was happening around him- Dean undressing him in front of someone, who was barely more than a stranger to Sam. He wouldn't want for his mom to witness him like this... weak and exposed and barely coherent.

"I got it," Mary said with understanding in her eyes and started working the torn fabric of Sam's shirt off his chest while Dean proceeded to pull Sam's jeans off his coltish legs and tossed them to the floor. "Thanks."

Sam's eyes were at half-mast; curious and feverish, but when he parted his violet lips to reply and breathed out Dean's name with even more exertion and wonder than before, Dean's insides clenched with the omnipresent worry for his brother.

"Yeah," Dean sighed as he worked Sam's favorite pair of slacks over his legs. He tilted Sam's bare upper body forward and pulled the hoodie over his head, letting the kid settle against Dean's chest as he carefully threaded his floppy arms through the warm fabric's sleeves; first one and then the other.

"'s goin'on?" Sam slurred against Dean's shoulder.

And yeah… maybe that question wasn't quite as coherent as Dean had hoped, but it would do.

Sam's head rolled against his collar bone, hot breaths ghosting over Dean's carotid in a steady, reassuring rhythm and Dean allowed himself a moment to enjoy this… the feel and sound of his brother, alive and real and _right freaking there_ against his chest.

"Nothing, Sam," he breathed out and pulled the kid closer against his chest before dropping a quick peck against Sam's mop of unruly hair. "Just try to relax, okay?"

Sam shivered and when his breath hitched, Dean wasn't sure whether it was from pain or from the fact that this level of affection coming from his big brother was unusual.

But what Sam didn't know was that Dean had spent the past 48 hours in a constant state of mind-numbing worry for his lost little brother and what had been done to him.

Dean had been half out of his mind with concern and now Sam was back… and more than that, their mom was back too- and Dean just thought he was allowed to be a little emotional over the fact that instead of losing yet another person they loved, they had gotten a long-lost piece of their family back, this time.

"Mom, you wanna do me a favor?" Dean turned towards Mary with wild emotion in his eyes.

"Sure," she replied, surprised by the direct question. So far, Dean had insisted on doing most of the work himself.

"You remember how to get down to the basement, right? The storage room I showed you?"

Mary nodded.

Dean maneuvered Sam's body back down against his pillow and pulled the blanket up around the kid's shoulders, wrapping him into a tight cocoon of fluffy warmth. "Uh… there's a rack with all our medical supplies. Can you go down and look for a bag of saline for an IV and uh… a bottle of antibiotics, strongest type you can find?"

Mary nodded along with his instructions and eased off the mattress.

"Wait," Dean dug a set of keys from his back pocket and tossed it at her. She snatched them mid-air, but Dean had already turned back towards his brother, one hand pressed to Sam's forehead.

"Thanks," he said as she left the room, hurrying down the hallway.

Dean let out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding and carded his fingers through Sam's hair just as Sam's eyes closed again, lulled back to sleep by the comfortable warmth and his big brother's reassuring touch.

In about ten minutes, when Sam was hooked to the IV, Dean would start cleaning his wounds and wrapping that damn burn-wound on Sam's collarbone (the one that had most likely been caused by the cattle prod).

He would check the gunshot wound in Sam's legs… wrap it in a clean bandage and hope against hope that the infection hadn't spread far in the day it had been left untreated.

Then he'd settle in for a long night, wake Sam from his feverish nightmares and –in the worst case- climb into bed to pull the sasquatch against his chest to make sure he felt Dean's heartbeat next to his own, soothing and real and beating in sync with Sam's.

But for now, he'd just sit here and bask in the sense of victory that came with knowing that his brother was back by his side and that their mom was here, just because… no deals, no hell, no damn angels or demons or the fucking apocalypse waiting around the corner to tear them apart again.

Sam's breathing evened out Dean's allowed himself to brush his thumb over the kid's cheek in a rare display of affection.

He didn't know if Mary was going to stay with them forever… or if she was going to leave them again at some point.

He didn't know what the British Men of Letters wanted from them, or why they had gone after Sam, but right now, none of that mattered.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was that Sam was back by his side.

"I gotcha," he whispered softly. "I gotcha, brother."

 _Always._

 **~SPN~**

Sam had a special of saying 'Dean' for every possible situation.

And Dean didn't know if it was because they had spent their entire lives in each other's pockets or if it was a brother thing, but at this point it had become second nature to him to read into every nuance of Sam's tone when he spoke.

There was a 'Dean' that was laced with annoyance when Dean was making an inappropriate joke and it was usually accompanied by that _'Dude, seriously?'_ look that meant that Dean should grow the hell up and _'How can you be so obnoxious?'._

Then there was the kind of whiny, drawn-out 'Deaaan' that never failed to make Sam sound like a petulant child, no matter how old he was, usually applied when Dean charmed his way into the panties of yet another waitress or commented on Sam's sex life (or apparent lack thereof) in public.

Then there was the simple _'Hey, listen up'_ \- type of 'Dean' and of course, the type that meant _'A little help?'_ when Sam was gasping while whatever pissed off monster they were hunting was currently busy strangling him to death.

Because apparently, Sam's throat was just _that_ irresistible.

Sometimes, after a particular crappy hunt or after an argument there was the type of 'Dean…' that said a whole lot without saying anything at all. It somehow managed to be _'I'm sorry'_ and ' _You're such a jerk'_ and _'I didn't mean it,'_ at the same time.

And then there was the kind of heart-shattering, hair-raising 'DEAAAN!' that meant Sammy was in trouble or unfathomable pain and the only thing he could force past his lips, the only thing he could still _articulate_ was the need for his older brother to come and save him.

Now, that one, Dean could have easily gone without hearing again for the rest of his life.

But of course, because they never got what they wanted, Dean's eyes slammed open to the sound of Sam's hoarse, pain-stricken scream at four-thirty in the morning, about an hour after Dean had last checked on his brother.

"DEAAAN!" the broken voice sent every single one of Dean's alarm bells ringing and sent his body forward before he was even awake enough to have full control of his limbs.

It was an age-old instinct, the need to find Sam and protect him from whatever was hurting him, completely overtaking his rationality.

Because the universe just couldn't be bothered to give them a fucking break.

Like _ever_.

A shudder rippled through him as he lunged up out of his bed, because he was only wearing a shirt and nothing else, his flannel along with every other blanket in their possession and the portable radiator had been put into Sam's room when they'd first needed to warm him up from the rain.

Dean rushed down the hallway, grabbing the thermometer from his nightstand, along with a couple of cooling packs he had taken out of the freezer earlier that night, already preparing for the worst.

Nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to Sam's room (he would have stayed in the chair by his bedside just like he'd planned to do in the beginning, if his mom hadn't insisted he caught some actual sleep in his own room), Dean dropped the few items he was carrying on the foot of Sam's mattress.

"What happened?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

Mary was cradling Sam's face with her hands, brushing soaked strands from his forehead and looking mildly panicked herself.

"I don't know," she shook her head, eyes wide as she met Dean's gaze. "He seemed fine just a minute ago and then he started tossing and turning and calling your name."

Dean leaned over his brother's frame, swiping his trained gaze over the kid's body in order to scan him for the classical symptoms of an infection.

Shivering, _check_.

Clammy skin, _check_.

Uncontrolled body movement and spasms… _damn it, Sammy._

"Why didn't you wake me?" Dean demanded, his worry for Sam making his voice harsh.

He threw Mary an accusatory glower because mom or not, Sam was his responsibility and Dean would have never left the kid's bedside if he'd known she wouldn't come get him the second his fever spiked.

Mary's eyes narrowed at the tone Dean used on her. "It happened ten seconds ago, Dean. Would you'd rather I left him alone in the state he was in?"

Touché. At least they now knew where Sammy had gotten his rebellious spirit from.

Sam's face was unnaturally pale but his cheeks were flushed a bright shade of pink and if Dean hadn't been so terrified of losing Sam, he might have snapped a picture of it just to tease him about it later.

His heart constricted when he noticed the way Sam tossed his head from side to side, muttering unintelligible words to himself as he continued to be trapped in his fever dream.

The cords of Sam's neck were standing out from beneath the otherwise ghostly white skin and Dean bit out a string of curses when he brushed his palm over Sam's forehead and found the skin scalding hot beneath the tips of his fingers.

"NO! Stop it— _no_!"

"Hey now," Dean settled a heavy hand on the kid's shoulder and was rewarded with a body-wracking shudder that ripped a whimper from Sam's throat which was wrong on SO many levels. Nobody should ever make Sam sound like this. "Sammy listen to me. We got you out from there. You're safe, remember?"

He lost count over how often he'd reassured his brother that in the past six hours since they'd gotten Sam back to the bunker and patched him up.

"Dean," Sam shuddered and yeah, okay, Dean was kind of used to Sam being overly clingy when he was sick because the kid had never really outgrown that particular childhood stage, but the way he said Dean's name right now- with that mix of pure grief and loss and devastation… Damn, if that wasn't a new 'Dean' altogether, one he had never heard coming from Sam's lips before. One Dean wasn't sure he ever _wanted_ to hear from Sam again, either.

"Dean."

It seemed like Sam was going to keep saying it until he got a response, and he didn't exactly have a lot of energy to waste, so Dean nodded and wiped a damp cloth over his brother's burning forehead. "It's okay. I'm here, man."

" _Dean_ ," Sam repeated, never one to give up easily. Dean would have rolled his eyes at Sam's stubborn streak, so fierce that it prevailed in his character, even when he was barely conscious. But he didn't.

"That's right. It's your awesome big brother," Dean smiled instead and ruffled Sam's sweat-soaked bangs with one hand, the other one still wrapped around the thermometer. "Now open wide for me."

Sam's eyelashes fluttered in response to Dean's voice and it was only then that Dean noticed the vacant expression in Sam's eyes- the way they kept wandering off and rolling back in their sockets.

His face was way too pale and when Dean's fingers skimmed over the pallid skin and felt the scalding heat radiating from Sam's cheeks, he was finally able to interpret the shaky note in Sam's unnaturally high-pitched voice when he called out for Dean.

Sam wasn't acknowledging his big brother's presence; he wasn't saying _'Thank you'_ or _'Forgive me'_ or any of the other stuff that Dean knew his brother could say with just intonation alone.

Right now, Sammy was so lost in the fever- so lost in his own memories of the torture and the solitude and the devastating realization that he was all alone in the world, that he couldn't tell his dreams from reality.

Sam wasn't saying _'Here you are_ ' or _'I need you'_ but he was calling out for a brother he thought lost- searching him- pleading for him to come back and save him from whatever hell these sons of bitches had put him through.

"Deaan… please—" Sam was pleading now, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks as his voice broke with the kind of raw desperation that came from losing the person you valued most in the world and the pain and hopelessness in Sam's voice went straight to the core of Dean's heart.

It sent a flush of fierce protectiveness and sorrow for him, strong enough to rob him of his breath.

Mary seemed to notice Dean's reaction because the second she was pushing into his vision from the side, gently easing the thermometer out of Dean's hold. "Here, let me take that."

Dean cleared his throat, suddenly remembering that he wasn't alone with Sam, like usually, but that their mom was standing right next to him, silently watching the exchange.

"Yeah, thanks, um, could you maybe—"

"More antibiotics?" Mary suggested softly, already having guessed what he was going to ask her for.

Dean nodded and gave her a grateful smile before she ducked out of the door and vanished down the hallway.

He felt a bit bad for sending her out of the room, again, but he had a feeling that all of this was overwhelming for Mary and that she was grateful for the break, however short-lived it was.

Of course, Sammy waited for them to be alone before he started hauling out the big guns.

"Don't leave me. Please."

"Leave? Now, why would I go and do a stupid thing like that?" Dean forced a wavering smile on his lips and grabbed Sam's hands with his own shaking ones, trying not to freak out at how warm they felt to the touch. "I'm not going anywhere, alright?"

"I don't know where he is. No- _please_ —"

"Crap," Dean let out, low under his breath.

He carefully disentangled his fingers again and put Sam's hand down on the wool blanket.

Sam wasn't making much sense at this point. His T-shirt was drenched with sweat as his limbs jolted and spasmed like his entire body was on fire.

"Please… s-stop it! Don't— _NOOO_!" Sam screamed, voice hoarse and shaking with terror and the phantom pain of whatever these British bastards had done to him.

Dean cast a fleeting look down at the third-degree burn wound on Sam's leg, now carefully hidden beneath three layers of clean gauze and antibiotic ointment.

When Dean and Mary had first taken off the make-shift wrapping around Sam's right foot, they had both very nearly gotten sick at the sight that met their eyes. Sam's foot hadn't just been burned, it had been sizzled… flayed.

They had taken a goddamn _blowtorch_ to Sam's foot.

Dean's hands curled into fists, jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might snap.

It made him want to hunt that heartless strung-up bitch down and see how she'd like to have some of her body parts worked over with a blowtorch… or a crowbar… or his fist. Well, you got the picture.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean growled out, his own voice shaking as he moved in and tried to wrestle Sam's body down against the mattress, trying to keep the fresh suture wound on Sam's leg from popping. "Hold still, man. You're ruining all my hard handiwork."

Dean had been forced to redo the stitches on Sam's leg from where the veterinarian had butchered Sam up with fucking _dental floss_ and Dean would rather not have to redo it all.

Sam's sluggish eyes were moving around, but they didn't focus on Dean.

It reminded him of the way Sam would sometimes get when he was younger. The kid had always been prone to getting sick during his childhood years. And every time he had come down with the flu or an infection, he would start hallucinating, tossing and turning in bed and muttering out broken pleas much like he did now.

Only that now, Sam was about twenty-five years older and there were needle marks on his neck from what Dean suspected must have been _drugs_. Which really, was like adding gasoline to the raging fire of fury in his guts, because these fucking bastards hadn't just tortured Sam physically, but _mentally_ as well; had tried to break his mind and soul on top of his body and made him see stuff- of the very bad variety. The kind of stuff that they had enough trouble dealing with on a regular basis, much less when you were filled up to the brim with narcotics or hallucinates.

"It w-wasn't. I didn't mean to let him out."

"Sammy. Hey," Dean carded his fingers through Sam's hair, comforting in a manner he'd subconsciously perfected over a lifetime spent together. "Whatever you're seeing right now? Wherever you are? It's not real, okay? None of it's real."

Dean didn't know what kind of information the British chapter of the Men of Letters had tried to get out of his brother, but he'd gathered enough to understand that they'd learned all about Winchesters' greatest hits, probably blaming Sam for letting Lucifer out and for kick-starting the Apocalypse. The demon blood. Opening the gates of Hell. Not closing them again when they had the chance. Letting out the Darkness... just to name a few.

Funny, how their past always came to nip them in the butt when they least expected it.

"Dean," Sam moaned and his hazel eyes sluggishly rolled over to Dean, settling on him for the briefest of moments before moving in the opposite direction again.

"I shouldn't have— _Ruby_ and… Lucifer. I should have—" Sam's face scrunched up and a tear slid down his fever-flushed cheeks, fingers clenching and unclenching around the blanket he was bundled up in.

" _Sam_ ," Dean felt something clench inside his chest at the words.

"I wanted you to have it."

Sam's voice turned soft and quiet, barely audible over the sound of his harsh, quickened breaths and Dean just nodded and wiped his palm over Sam's burning forehead once more.

"You should've... I should've given it t-to you. When I had the chance."

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed softly because arguing with Sam when he was out of his mind with fever seemed pointless. "Let's focus on getting you better, for now, alright Sammy?"

"No, Dean," Sam's arm shot forward in a wildly flailing arch and almost hit Dean in the face before clammy fingers latched onto his wrist.

Dean sucked in a startled breath, his own heart racing wildly in his chest at the sight of wild desperation and grief in Sam's wide-eyed gaze.

"You don't understand. I should have told you… I kept it- all this time. I just—" Sam's voice grew fierce again, desperate-almost as he tried to make Dean understand whatever it was that bothered him. "The voicemail… and Ruby said— but I should have given it to you before…'for _Amara_."

Dean swallowed around the massive lump in his throat and waited for Sam's burst of anger to subside again- for his forceful grip to weaken around his wrist.

His brother wasn't making a lick of sense, but Dean understood enough of what Sam must have seen in his drug-induced hallucinations to get the general gist of it.

"What would you have given me, Sam?" Dean eventually asked, even though he was sure the answer was going to kill him.

But just as Sam was about to answer him, Mary was back with another round of antibiotics as well as clean bandages and a washcloth.

"Here," she tossed Dean the washcloth and he caught it mid-air before carefully placing it on Sam's forehead. "How is he doing? Did his temperature go up again?"

Dean swallowed, only now realizing that he had been too busy trying to keep Sam from busting his stitches, trying to talk him down from his feverish nightmares, to actually take his temperature. "I haven't checked."

The worry lines creasing Mary's forehead only deepened. "Are you okay?"

Dean never got to respond when Sam tossed his head to the side, whole body wrecked by yet another violent shiver. "No… no, I didn't mean to, I swear. It was the…the demon blood. Yellow eyes…"

"Yellow eyes?" Mary repeated in a shocked whisper, eyes widening in shock.

Her head snapped up, fierce eyes burning a hole through Dean's chest.

"The yellow-eyed demon, did he get to Sam, somehow?"

 _Crap._

Dean so wasn't ready to open up that particular can of worms.

It made sense for their mom to want to know what happened that night in Kansas- the night she died. Especially considering that the last thing she'd seen was some lurking demon, bowed over the crib of her six-month-old baby.

But of all the possible topics Dean was looking forward to bond over with his mom, Sam's addiction to demon blood and his corruption by Yellow Eyes sure wasn't one of them.

"No… _Jessica_ ," Sam rasped out, raw and pained and so fucking vulnerable- like a mantra he'd perfected in the past couple of days, pleading for relief, for mercy.

And Dean had heard enough.

There would be no reasoning with Sam. Not while he was in this state. And Dean wasn't sure if an extra dose of antibiotics and a washcloth was going to cut it.

"Dean, answer me!" Mary demanded and Dean shot her a glower over Sam's thrashing, sweaty form on the bed. "Did the demon get to Sam? Did he… did he hurt Sammy somehow?"

And okay, sure Mary had every right to be worried and confused and freaking out, but Sam was feverish and in a world of pain and he was talking about Jessica.

"Look, I know you've got questions. And I'll answer them, I will. But right now we need to focus on Sam."

Mary hesitated for a second, her breath coming fast as she tried to rein in her growing panic and then she gave Dean a jerky nod. "We need to get his temperature down somehow."

"Yeah, we do," Dean agreed with a sigh and then landed a swift, unexpected slap to Sam's cheek.

Sam gasped, eyes widening in shock as his arms flailed up, but Dean was fast, straddling his brother's waist and grabbing his arms to hold him in place.

"Sammy, listen. You gotta calm down alright?"

"Noo—" Sam sputtered out, chest heaving as he squirmed and twisted on the bed, long limbs getting tangled up in clothes and blankets. "DEAN!"

"Take his arms," Dean commanded and Mary startled into action, reaching out to wrap her fingers around her younger son's arms. "Don't let go."

"Dean, do you really think—"

Dean ignored her in favor of grasping Sam's chin with his hands and peering down into his eyes.

"Look at me… look at me, Sam. What are you seeing? Who are you looking at?"

Sam screamed out again, his voice pitched with terror and pain.

"Damn it, Sam, shut up and hold still," Dean hissed out, voice shaky as he continued to press Sam down and hold him immobile to keep him from hurting himself any further.

He tried his best to ignore his kid brother's ear-splitting screams, tried to ignore the way Sam's heart was going a mile a minute beneath his fingertips when he checked the kid's pulse.

Dean cursed and grabbed Sam by the shoulders, shaking him in an effort to get some sense back into him. "Sam! C'mon, snap the hell out of this! _Sam_!"

The sound of Sam's panicked screams- of his pain-filled gasps and moans was enough to fuel the rage inside Dean's chest- enough to make him lose whatever little composure he'd still possessed after everything that had happened.

So when Mary stepped closer from the side and wrapped a firm hand around Dean's upper arm, pulling him back, it took a moment for Dean to temper himself enough to be fully aware of her presence.

"Dean, this isn't helping him."

Dean blinked and looked down at Sam's face- at the way his eyes were ripped wide open, at the near-frantic pace of Sam's heart beat- the way his breath seemed to come out in hasty little bursts of hot air, eyes rolling back in his head. He was delirious.

And no matter how much Dean yelled at him or tried to shake him out of it, the fever was still raging on, making his brother more vulnerable and forcing him to relive the events of the past two days.

Dean cringed, frightened that he had been too rough with his fragile brother, that he might have hurt Sam even more in his frantic attempts to bring him back to awareness.

Sam was shivering in his sweat-soaked hoodie, the dark strands of his girly hair nearly plastered to his forehead as he alternated between wet coughs and dry heaving, shuddering in the blankets.

"We need to get his temperature down."

"Cold shower?" Mary suggested.

"We should have some frozen stuff in the freezers. Can you go and get it while I carry him over to the bathroom?"

Mary nodded and took off again, while Dean, not willing to waste any more time, gently picked his shivering brother up and propped him up against his own chest.

"Dean… Help me, _please_."

Sam coughed wetly against Sam's neck, tears streaming down his cheeks and soaking Dean's shirt as his burning forehead flopped listlessly against Dean's shoulder.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and allowed himself to wrap an arm around Sam's quivering back, soaking up his brother's presence, focusing on the sluggish beat of his heart, protecting him from the remnants of Sam's pain-filled memories.

And alright, maybe his words wouldn't get through to Sam, but Dean couldn't just ignore an outright plea for help coming from Sam.

He just didn't have that in himself.

"You know I'll always help you," he whispered, cupping the back of Sam's head and letting out a slow breath. "You don't ever have to ask for that, you hear me? I'll always come for you, Sammy. No matter what."

"Noo…" Sam shook his head, voice so raw with grief that it sounded like it had been through a grater. His long fingers dug painfully into Dean's back as he shuddered in his older brother's hold. "You won't come back, not this time. 'm all alone…"

And fuck if the words- so quiet and broken- weren't killing Dean.

Pulling Sam's head back as gently as possible and cradling his face with his palm, Dean peered into his brother's vacant gaze, their noses nearly touching.

"But I did come, Sammy. And guess what, I brought mom with me, too. It's a real package deal. Got the whole gang back together…"

"M-mom?" Sam choked out with, confusion crossing his features and more tears falling.

And of course- _of freaking course_ \- this would be the thing that cut through whatever veil of memories and hallucinations was holding his brother's mind trapped.

Dean sighed and swiped a thumb beneath Sam's eye.

"Yeah, Sam. Mom's back."

Sam hummed out something intelligible against Dean's shoulder and slumped in his hold.

"Time to get you cooled down, now. C'mon."

Realizing that he couldn't spare any more time working on Sam's current state of mind and trying to talk some sense back into him, Dean resettled his hold on his brother's form and slung his arm over Sam's shoulder.

The kid was still burning up under his touch and practically folded in half with pain and exhaustion, even as Dean continued to hold up the majority of his weight.

Sam's face screwed up in pain when Dean lifted him up even higher, carefully dragging him to the foot of the mattress.

"You need help with him?" Mary's voice had his head snap up in surprise.

She was standing in the doorway, a worried expression on her face as she hovered close.

Her urge to _protect_ and _nurture_ and be close to Sam was so obvious in everything she did and said, but most of all, it was in the way she looked at Sam like she needed desperately to make amends and reconnect with her baby boy- with the kid she never got to see grow and prosper like Dean had, that got to him.

And Dean understood that urge, that natural, maternal instinct to care for your child when it was hurting because he had never **_not_** felt that way about his little brother.

At the end of the day, Dean had been there for every skinned knee, every high school bully, every nervous breakdown before a date or girl that left him brokenhearted.

Dean had been there for every step of Sam's life.

For every breakdown and every major milestone.

And Sam had done the exact same for him.

In all honest, it had been just the two of them for so long now, that Dean found it very hard to take a step back from his role as the nurturer, the caretaker and let someone else take on a bit of the responsibility that was 'watching out for Sammy'. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to give that part of himself up in the slightest.

It was too deeply ingrained in him.

"Dean? Honey?"

Getting called _'Honey'_ was something he would have to get used to, as well.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Maybe you could grab his legs?"

Mary nodded and moved in to help with Sam's weight.

"Careful of the—"

"I know, Dean."

Dean was happy to hide his blush behind Sam's mop of unruly hair. So maybe he could be a bit overbearing where Sam's well-being was concerned, fine. But only because the kid had a penchant for getting himself in trouble, point in case, getting kidnapped and tortured within a day of Dean's absence.

" _Jess_ ," Sam muttered as Dean and Mary heaved him up from the mattress, grunting under the dead weight of his overgrown body. "'m so sorry."

Dean gritted his teeth in anger because it's been years since Sam had openly talked about her or said his name and even though that didn't mean, Sam didn't still miss her like it was yesterday, Dean had a growing suspicion that these bastards from the British Man of Letters chapter had done something to remind her of his past failures… which- in Sam's eyes- included the loss of his girlfriend.

And it made him near-insane with fury because these sons of bitches had no right to do this to Sammy; Sam simply shouldn't have to deal with these memories again- with the fault and self-blame they brought forth. He shouldn't have to go through that on top of everything else.

"Shhh…" Dean hushed Sam and tightened his arm around his brother's torso. "Not your fault, Sam."

"Who's Jessica?" Mary asked softly, as they moved down the hallway towards the bunker's bathroom. She was being as careful as possible with Sam's burned foot, for which Dean was grateful.

He swallowed as he sent Mary a fleeting glance, just long enough to let her know that now wasn't the time to bring up that particular topic- not with Sam totally out of it and unaware of the words he was saying. "It was his girlfriend, back when he was in college."

"Sam went to college?"

Dean snorted softly and hitched Sam's body up higher on his chest. "Yeah, Stanford."

"And the girl?" Mary asked, voice tentative as if she somehow knew what the answer to the question was.

Dean's gaze flickered away. For some reason, Jessica's death would forever be extra painful to him. Maybe because she had represented Sammy's shot at a 'normal' life- at happiness outside of their gory, bloody, no-good hunting lives.

"She died," Dean swallowed, unable to look his mother in the eyes. Unbidden, the image of Mary sitting at the dining table with them, when Sam happily announced his engagement with Jess, came to Dean's mind. A memory doused in so much heartbreak that Dean had buried it deep in the dusty corners of his mind.

It hadn't been real. None of it had been real.

But Mary was very real now... and even if Jess was no longer alive and the odds of either of them getting engaged anytime soon were rather slim, Dean still hoped that they'd share meals together and trade stories and bond over what did and didn't happen in their lives, now that a part of their family had been returned to them. Now that they had been granted a second chance.

"Did she—"

"It's not really my story to tell. Sam will tell you about her when he's ready."

Mary paused at that, realization starting to dawn on her. She was a smart woman, Dean knew that she must have already realized that Jessica had been more to Sam than just a college sweetheart. He had picked a ring for her, a lifetime ago.

He had picked a ring for her, a lifetime ago.

He had loved her. Still did.

And she would never stop being a sore topic for Sam because of that, which meant their mom would have to get to know Sam first and earn his trust before he opened up to her that way and told her about his past.

They dragged Sam into the bathroom and put him down on the edge of the tub that Mary had filled with cold water, ice cubes and whatever frozen vegetables she had found in the freezer.

"Can you hold him up for a second? Don't put him in, yet," Dean instructed softly before rushing off to the sink and pulling a none-descript pill bottle from their small bathroom cabinet. He filled a cup with water and tipped two pills out into his calloused palm before returning to Mary's side.

Crouching down to be at eye-level with his younger brother, Dean the cup of water up to Sam's lips.

"Drink this, Sammy. It'll help with the fever, alright?"

Sam's eyes swiveled over to Dean, watery and confused.

"Dean."

Mary shot Dean a look and Dean felt heat rise to his cheeks at the hopeful undertone in Sam's voice- the affection in that one word, like Dean's name was a prayer, like Sam's entire world revolved the person the name belonged to.

"C'mon, man," Dean gently tipped Sam's head back and guided the cup to his lips, lifting it just a few millimeters at a time to try and keep his brother from choking. "There you go, that's good. Now knock these back, okay? Here, I'll help you."

Dean gently fed Sam the pills and then gave him another sip of the water to wash them down.

Sam reached up to hold the cup himself, but his motoric abilities were all off as a side effect of the fever and whatever lingering effect these damn drugs had on him. He ended up splashing about half of the cup's contents all over himself and the bathroom tiles when Mary slowly eased the cup from his shaking fingers. "T-the Darkness… took him."

Dean cringed at the words and looked at Mary when she gave him a confused look.

"The darkness?" she mouthed, looking gradually more disturbed with each of Sam's incoherent mutters that revealed jumbled pieces of their past.

"It's complicated," Dean gave back with a nervous rub of his neck.

Mary huffed out a soft breath. "I'm starting to believe everything is, with you and Sam."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Dean confirmed with a sad little shake of his head. Soon, Sam's feverish mutters returned to a steady, repetitive ramble of _'No'_ and ' _Please stop'_ and Dean couldn't stand to hear it any longer.

"Let's get him into the water."

They worked Sam's uncooperative limbs out of the sweat-soaked shirt and slacks, leaving him just in a pair of boxers and nothing else.

The second the cool bathroom air hits Sam's exposed body, he started shivering, teeth chattering; body-wrecking shudders tearing through him like lightning bolts.

Mary shoots Dean a nervous look. "Should we really—"

"We have to," Dean holds her gaze, not backing down from this because this was a necessary measure to save Sam's life and even though Sam didn't know it, they really weren't left with another choice. "We need to cool him down. But if you'd rather leave, I can do this by myself. I've done it before. It's alright."

It would be easier if she stayed, but Dean understood the pain that came from having to put a loved one through this agony when they were unable to comprehend your good intentions in your actions, when they thought you were hurting them on purpose, pleading for you to stop.

So yeah, what they were about to do was messy and cruel and Dean would prefer to put only himself and his brother through the misery if he could somehow convince Mary to stay out of the way.

"I'm not leaving," Mary decided, defiance and determination in her eyes.

Dean sighed and gave her a small, imperceptible nod before returning his attention to the task at hand; which was getting Sam into that damn bathtub of ice.

"Hey Sammy, can you hear me?" Dean gently inquired, slipping one of his hands up to cradle the base of Sam's neck, fingers twining into the silken strands of auburn hair.

Sam looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears.

"You're doing great. I'm going to lift you into the tub, now."

Dean gently guided Sam's body into the bath and then slid into the tub behind Sam's form, to ensure he wasn't going to drown or hurt himself in his fevered haze.

Turns out it was a good idea too because the second Sam was fully seated and encased by ice cubes, his sluggish brain seemed to catch up with the pain and he started gasping and clawing at the tub with his fingernails in a desperate attempt to free himself.

His arms and legs started thrashing, water splashing all around them and Dean's very own bodily reaction of _'cold'_ , _'fuck'_ , and _'holyfuckingshit'_ was quickly overruled by his concern for Sam.

" _Dean_ ," Mary's voice rose up a notch.

"Get his leg. Make sure he doesn't hit it anywhere," Dean ordered through clenched teeth. He hadn't even bothered to take off his own clothes, but the shirt and jogging pants he was wearing were clinging to him like a film of ice and snow covering his body.

He could hardly imagine what the ice water must feel like to someone with a fever- with a body temperature high enough for the water to feel like an ocean of needles pricking his skin.

"C-cold," Sam shuddered when Dean reached up to palm his forehead and gently tipped Sam's head back so it came to rest against his shoulder, lathing more of the cold water over Sam's hair and forehead to lower his temperature. "H-h-hurts."

"I know, man. I'm sorry," Dean shushed his brother gently, all the while holding Mary's gaze over Sam's quaking shoulder. She seemed to have less trouble holding him down already and it was apparent from the way his struggles weakened noticeably, that the fight was slowly leaving Sam.

"Hur'ss…" Sam slurred out,

"It's just for a couple of minutes. I promise."

"Dean you can't stay in there too long," Mary protested softly, her motherly nature showing once again in form of worry. "You'll only end up getting sick, too."

Dean only tightened his arms around his shivering brother and continued to run his icy fingers over Sam's heated forehead in an attempt to bring the fever down.

"I'm got it." It took some real effort to force the words out without letting on how much the cold was getting to him, but Sam's back was like a radiator plastered to his chest and that helped.

It took some real effort to force the words out without letting on how much the cold was getting to him, but Sam's back was like a radiator plastered to his chest and that helped.

Slowly but surely, Sam's temperature went down and the icy water washed away the last remnants of tears from Sam's cheeks. Gradually, Sam relaxed into Dean's gentle hold, ceasing his struggles and nuzzling into Dean's body instead, like he wanted to somehow bask in whatever residual body warmth Dean had left at this point.

Dean allowed his brother to go completely lax against his chest for a few minutes, dozing in and out of consciousness as both of their bodies spasmed and convulsed with forcible shudders.

Then they got him out and set him down on the edge of the tub, where Mary already awaited him with a fluffy towel and a fresh set of clothes. Dean used the time to change his own soaked clothes, all the while watching Sam with eagle eyes and making sure that Mary could handle Sam on her own and took care of his little brother properly.

"Blood…'m b-bleeding."

"What?" Dean's voice grew high-pitched with panic and he nearly tripped over his own jeans in his haste to cross over to Sam and their mother.

"Sammy. Where? Where are you bleeding?"

He let his assertive gaze trail over his brother in a quick scrutiny, trying to spot the source of his brother's discomfort, but try as he might there was no blood anywhere on Sam.

He had been there the entire time, just a couple of feet away. How could Sam have managed to hurt himself in that short of a time span and with no apparent threat or danger around him?

"'s e-every-where… on me. I can f-feel it…"

Dean let out a sharp breath through his nose and then grabbed Sam by the shoulders, waiting for his brother's sluggish gaze to travel up and meet his own.

"Sam, there's no blood, okay? Not anywhere in this room and not on you. I've been cradling you to my chest for the past ten minutes. I believe I'd know it if you were bleeding anywhere."

Dean smiled and tried to make light of the situation because he was dead on his feet and so, so tired of having Sam right there and yet not being able to talk to him- to make himself heard.

" _Dean_ ," Sam whispered and Dean felt his stomach fall out at the wrecked tone in Sam's voice.

He had heard his own name coming so many goddamn times from Sam's mouth, a good share of those times, today.

But this time when Sam's blood-shut, blotchy eyes met Dean's there was a flicker of doubtful recognition in his gaze and Dean knew- he just knew- that the fever had broken.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Dean yanked Sammy's shivering form against his chest and held his brother tight, trying to convey everything he'd tried to tell a feverish Sam over the course of the past five hours with only one heartfelt gesture.

 _I missed you._

 _I was so goddamn worried about you._

 _I'm so glad you're okay._

 _Don't you ever do this_ again.

Sam was still shaky and not entirely with him yet, Dean could tell from the way his breath hitched and his breathing picked up and he swayed in Dean's grasp.

But he was aware enough to feel the beat of Dean's heart against his own.

Aware enough to know that this was real.

That Dean was _alive_.

And then Sam went stock still in Dean's grasp- absolutely rigid with shock and incredulity, his breath suddenly trapped in his throat as he let out a gasp. And Dean closed his eyes to keep the tears at bay because he knew what came next…

"M-mom?" Sam whispered, voice so raw and filled with such a deep, unshakable longing, that it caused Dean's heart to ache.

He knew how much Sammy had always wanted to meet their mom, how much he'd _craved_ to talk to her, just once… just to have this _one_ shared experience with her.

Hell, Sammy had done nothing but pestering Dean and their dad with questions about mom when he was a kid.

He had written whole high school papers about a mother he never got to personally know, just based on Dean's tales, a couple of frayed photographs and Sammy's undying hero worship of the woman that burned on the ceiling of his nursery.

Even today, over thirty years after her death, Sam still sometimes dreamed about their mother- dreamed about getting to know her and basking in her motherly affection, because no matter how hard Dean had tried- a mother's love was something that could not be completely substituted.

And now, right in this moment, Sammy had finally been granted that wish.

He finally had his mom standing right in front of him, within reach, real and alive and _whole_.

Dean gave Sam one last reassuring squeeze before pulling back and staring over at their mom, who now looked like she was two seconds away from breaking down.

He kept one palm placed comfortingly over the nape of Sam's cold neck, squeezing gently.

 _'It's alright. It's really her.'_

Mary took a step forward, looking dangerously close to tears herself.

"Hey, sweetheart," her voice was shaking, eyes filled with a whole lifetime of regret.

Sam's face scrunched up and fresh tears leaked from his eyes.

" _Mom._ "

 **The End.**

* * *

 _I've made a one-shot out of that. I will wait until they show an actual conversation between Mary and Sam before I write my own take on it ;) But for now I'll leave you with this version. Hope you enjoyed! Reviews totally make my day! Xoxo_


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